Chernavin nodded. “Of course. He is my superior officer.”
“And that didn’t seem strange to you?” she pressed further.
“No …” the Russian lieutenant said slowly. He tried to explain.
“The captain is a perfectionist and this was an important flight — one with so many foreigners aboard. I thought he just wanted to make certain the aircraft was readied according to his standards.”
I bet he did, Helen thought coldly. She sat back while Koniev took the ball.
“And you found nothing unusual in this ? even after the plane crashed?”
The MVD major glowered across the table at Chernavin.
“Why was that, Lieutenant?”
The Russian Air Force officer reddened. He lowered his gaze, unable to meet Koniev’s glare. “Well, you see, I …”
He wanted to duck any responsibility for the crash, Helen realized suddenly. And Grushtin’s intervention gave him a convenient out. If Kandalaksha’s most “brilliant” mechanic had missed something in the preflight check, then how could anyone blame a young junior officer like him? Her mouth twisted in distaste as she stared at Chernavin.
She’d never been able to stomach people who tried to dodge accountability for their own actions.
“If Captain Grushtin wasn’t managing the flight line that day, what was his official duty assignment?” Peter Thorn asked abruptly.
Chernavin looked startled. He glanced quickly at Serov’s aide and lowered his voice. “He was in charge of a special project.”’ The Russian lieutenant nodded pointedly toward Thorn’s American uniform and said knowingly, “The special engine project.”
What the hell was this “special engine project,” Helen wondered, and why did Chernavin seem to expect Peter to know all about it? Was there any connection at all between Gasparov’s heroin smuggling, the cryptic notation in John Avery’s inspection log, and this “project”? Or were they looking at a series of unrelated events?
“That’s quite enough, Lieutenant!” Colonel Boris Petrov loudly interrupted, breaking her train of thought.
Chernavin fell silent, looking more worried than ever.
Serov’s top aide scowled at Koniev. “Your authorization for this inquiry does not include prying into unrelated state secrets, Major! Especially not in front of foreigners! So you will confine your questions to matters involving the An-32 and the ground crews. Is that clear?”
Alexei Koniev stiffened in anger, and Helen braced herself for the explosion. Several months spent working closely with the MVD major had shown her that he had a deeply hidden temper.
It rarely showed itself, but interference in the performance of what he perceived as his duty was the one thing guaranteed to set him off.
Koniev’s cell phone chirped unexpectedly — heading off his intended reply. Impatiently, he flipped it open. “Yes. Koniev speaking.”
The MVD officer listened intently for a time, his face growing angrier by the minute. Finally, he gripped the phone tighter and responded, “I see. You’re quite sure? Very well. I’ll call you back.”
Koniev snapped his phone shut and turned toward Helen and Peter. His lips were compressed in a thin, tight line. “The lab tests on the recovered engine came back. There were fresh tool scrapes on the fuel filter.”
“Meaning what?” Helen asked softly.
“Meaning that Captain Grushtin or one of his men changed the engine fuel filter here at Kandalaksha — and deliberately installed a contaminated replacement,” Koniev said bluntly.
“The evidence is conclusive. The plane carrying Colonel Gasparov, his shipment, and your O.S.I.A inspection team was sabotaged.”
He whirled on Serov’s aide. “This investigation is now a formal murder inquiry, Colonel Petrov. Do you agree?”
The other man nodded reluctantly. “It appears so, Major. As difficult as I find that to believe.”
“I don’t give a damn what you believe, Colonel! And I don’t give a damn about your so-called state secrets,” Koniev said savagely. “I expect your full cooperation — real cooperation — this time?”
Petrov stiffened. “Very well.”
“Good.” Koniev eyed him carefully. “Then you, or Colonel General Serov, will tell us exactly where we can find this Captain Nikolai Grushtin. Or you and your commanding officer will explain your refusal to assist us in even less comfortable and less convenient quarters. In Moscow. Is that understood?”
Sitting rigidly upright in his chair, the other man nodded slowly. He seemed completely cowed.
But later Helen found herself wondering uneasily why the hatchet-faced Russian colonel’s lips had twitched briefly into what looked remarkably like a self-satisfied smirk.
Caraco’s Washington-area regional headquarters lay in the middle of the green, wooded countryside surrounding Dulles International Airport.
Broad streets, grassy lawns, and patches of oak and pine forest left standing around homes and office buildings gave the area something of a rural feel despite the fact that it was only a few scant miles from the western edge of Washington’s urban sprawl.
Seen from the outside, the Caraco compound was almost wholly unremarkable. It blended well with the neighboring modern-looking office parks and light industrial complexes fanning out from the airport. Its large, boxy buildings were pleasantly anonymous, practical, and architecturally uninteresting — similar in style to dozens of others bearing different corporate logos and names like “Vortech” and “EDC, Inc.”
Even the compound’s chainlink fence, perimeter floodlights, and twenty-four-hour guards were not out of the ordinary. Many of the area’s hightech electronics firms had tens of millions of dollars in manufacturing equipment and industrial secrets to protect.
But the fence, lighting, and guards were only the visible signs of a much more complete, almost sentient security system. A network of computer-controlled video cameras and motion sensors had been woven around the border of the compound to detect any unauthorized human or machine intrusion. All incoming phone, fax, and data lines were constantly monitored for signs of electronic eavesdropping, and all the external windows were double- paned and vacuum-sealed to thwart laser bugging.
Two of Caraco’s three buildings contained offices meeting rooms, computer centers, and file storage areas — all the run-of-the-mill trappings of any building owned by a large multinational corporation.
But the third building was different — very different.
Guards armed with Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns were stationed just inside the main door. Special identification badges were required to gain entrance — something none of Caraco’s American-born employees carried.
Inside, the warehousesized building was divided into several areas by movable partitions. All the activity was in one area, just off the main entrance. Racks of electronic equipment lined one wall, while the others were covered with wiring diagrams and enlarged photos of a twin-turboprop aircraft.
The floor was crowded with benches, each covered with tools and electronic equipment. Half a dozen technicians sat at the benches — peering at oscilloscope screens, or methodically assembling electronic components.
They conversed easily in low tones, their German mixing with country-western music playing from a boom box on a table next to a coffee machine.
The room had a hard, industrial feel, with nothing personal, no prints or photos, no newspaper clippings anywhere in sight.
The only item not related to the workplace was the radio, now belting out a Clint Black tune.
One of the technicians finished wiring a piece of gear, nodded to himself, and called across the room, “Klaus? Unit Number Three is ready.”
A man in his fifties, at least twenty years older than the rest of the technicians, balding with gray, close-cut hair on the sides, walked over from another workbench. “You remembered the interlocks this time, I hope?” he asked, half joking and half serious.
“Yes, Klaus. I checked them twice before calling you,” the young German technician answered
